Bruce Wayne: The Inquisitor
by beware98
Summary: Bruce Wayne doesn't become Batman, rather he pursues a career as a Private Investigator after seeing his parents murdered in front of him as a young child. He strives to keep the streets of Gotham clean from the scum that haunts it. - AU, Maybe some OOC moments
1. Chapter 1

The peak hour traffic was bumper to bumper out of the city. Horns were going off and tempers were raging as the sun slowly set on Gotham City. The glare from the window caused Bruce Wayne to shield his eyes for a moment. He held his hand in front of his face and looked at the word count on the document in front of him. He shook his head. "I'll never get through this," he muttered.

Bruce looked at his watch and sighed deeply. All day and not a single client. Days like these were the worst, sitting around, with nothing better to do than write up case reports and file them afterwards. Days like these though were the calm before the storm. Everything usually erupted into chaos. Bruce flipped his desk calendar over and remembered that tomorrow was Saturday. He could take the day off and relax. He recalled something his father had once said to him as a boy: "Good men never stop working, and a wise man gets someone else to do his work for him."

Bruce had loved his parents dearly. Thomas and Martha Wayne, the greatest benefactors that Gotham had ever seen. Loved by all, known by everyone. They were good people. That is until one tragic night when Bruce was just a boy. They were murdered brutally by a mugger, in cold blood. Bruce was left an orphan and was raised by the family butler, Alfred Pennyworth.

Deciding to do something good with his life to continue his parents' work, Bruce became a Private Investigator in order to combat the crime gangs that had strong influence over the city. He poured all of his parents' money into charity and grants for disadvantaged children while maintaining enough funds to get his agency off the ground. At first Wayne Detective Agency was just him, working behind the scenes for clients that had nowhere else to go. Eventually the Agency grew its client base and became successful. Some months they solved more murders than the police. Bruce was known for bending the rules to solve a case but he never crossed any boundaries. The major problem was that corruption dictated that none of the criminals ever stayed in prison long, whether it was Arkham or Blackgate, they all got out too soon for Bruce's liking.

"Bruce, do you want something to eat?"

Richard Grayson's voice pulled Bruce from his reverie. Bruce clicked saved on the document and pulled his wallet out.

"Yeah sure, let me see what I've got," Bruce replied as he shuffled through his wallet looking for cash.

"It's alright, I can pay, Bruce, don't worry about it. Let's go around the corner and grab a pizza, bring it back here and watch the ballgame," Dick handed Bruce his coat and followed him out of the door.

Dick Grayson was Bruce's senior detective. He handled the most serious cases and these days he was working more in the field than Bruce was. His respectful but charming manner meant he was more liked in the community than Bruce. Beneath his attractive appearance though was a burning desire to get to the truth. Dick Grayson's parents were also killed in a horrible set of circumstances during their circus show, the Flying Graysons. Dick's parents and himself were trapeze acrobats, successful ones at that, until one day the safety net broke and his parents fell. The circumstances of the tragic accident were murky at best and left Dick with an empty hole in his life. Taking pity on the similar circumstances, Bruce took Dick in and helped raise him. Bruce taught him everything he knew about detective work. This resulted in not only a father and son relationship, but also a sibling bond, with the two more like brothers than anything else.

Dick was now twenty five years old, seventeen years younger than the forty two year old Bruce. Even though there was a large age difference, both looked alike and were in good shape. They practiced boxing with each other almost daily and shared most of their time together.

The bell on the door rang as the two exited the building. On the corner of Gotham's two busiest roads, Wayne Detective Agency was in the heart of the city. Located all around were various restaurants, fast food outlets and supermarkets. They were heading the Guiseppe's Pizza, their favourite pizza shop. As they started walking down the street, it started to spit rain. Luckily Bruce had had the foresight to take an umbrella along. He unfurled it and held it over the two of them. A few moments later they walked into the store. Now it was pouring. It had not rained for a few weeks but this was an absolute deluge. The car lights of the peak hour traffic were blurred by the rain. The sight was oddly beautiful, and Bruce looked back out of the store for a moment, before walking towards the counter. He looked at Dick and asked him if he wanted the "usual." Dick handed Bruce a twenty dollar bill and sat down at the small waiting tables provided.

"Hi," Bruce smiled at the lady at the counter, "Could I please get two large pepperoni pizzas, both with extra pepperoni. "

"Yes, you certainly may, that will be fifteen eighty," the lady smiled at Bruce and he handed her the the bill. He turned away from the counter and sat down with Dick.

They usually didn't eat fast food that much so they could stay in good shape, but they made the occasional exception. Today they were just too tired to do anything else. Dick lived only a block from the Agency and neither were very good cooks. Bruce was too used to Alfred cooking for him growing up that he couldn't even boil an egg by the time he was eighteen years old. Alfred was Bruce's assistant but he only worked from Monday to Thursday. Bruce gave him Friday off to check in with all the charities and establishments that Bruce donated his parents' money to. Bruce trusted Alfred and Dick with his life and loved them both dearly. He pulled out his phone and saw he had received a new message. It was from Jim Gordon.

Jim Gordon was an underappreciated detective at the Gotham City Police Department who often served as Bruce's unofficial informant. The two had developed a great working relationship over the past few years and often shared dinners together. Bruce hadn't spoke to Jim in a few weeks and was glad to hear from him. The text read, " _Want to get a coffee on Sunday morning? We need to talk."_ Bruce frowned slightly and hoped nothing was amiss. He liked order. It was comforting and predictable. But he made a living out of disorder.

He smiled at this ironic contradiction and put his phone back in his pocket. He pursed his lips and looked around the store. It was derelict and provided almost no visual appeal whatsoever, but Guiseppe's made the best pizza in Gotham. Cracks ran all over the walls and there seemed to be an apparent level of dust that had decided to stay put in the store. The smell however, thwarted every negative aspect. The rich thick aroma of cheese and tomato delighted Bruce's tastebuds. He looked at his watch. They hadn't been waiting very long but as he peered at the counter he could see two pizza boxes being handed to Dick, who had already taken the initiative to pick up the ready pizzas. Bruce held the door open for Dick on the way out and once again opened his umbrella. The rain had settled into a rhythmic pattern and Bruce knew it wasn't going to let up anytime soon.

Bruce opened the front door of the Agency and chucked his keys on the table next to the door. His apartment was accessible both from the outside and from within the Agency office. That's why he had picked this place. It was inconspicuous and an unsuspecting place. That did put off some potential clients who didn't appreciate the run down look of the place. He didn't want to walk up the steps to his apartment in the rain so he went in the Agency's front door instead.

Bruce trudged up the stairs and opened the door leading to his apartment. He let Dick through and locked the door behind him. Dick opened both pizza boxes and the room was filled with steam. "Damn, those look good," remarked Dick.

"They always do," Bruce replied. He walked into the kitchen and opened the pantry. He looked around in it for a moment before his eyes fell on a bottle of scotch in the far right hand corner. He had bought it ten years ago and was keeping it for a special occasion. Bruce decided to save it for a better night. He grabbed a bottle of lemon and lime mineral water beside it.

"Want some?" Bruce offered. Dick looked at the bottle for a few seconds and made a face at Bruce.

"I'm fine with some plain water, Bruce. Now come and have your pizza," Dick smiled warmly and plonked himself down on the couch. He slid his hand in the couch cushions, searching for the remote. His hands wrapped around it and he pulled it out, turning the tv on. The sight before Dick made him worried.

"Look at this Bruce," he said, concerned.

Bruce looked up from the kitchen. He grabbed his pizza and went down to the couch, sitting next to Dick. On the screen before them the headline read: "SERIAL KILLER LOOSE FROM ARKHAM ASYLUM." Bruce immediately grabbed a notepad from the coffee table and started writing down all the details before him on the television. He scribbled furiously, noting down everything from the news channel. Once he finished he placed the pencil on the table and looked at Dick.

"Dick, go call Jim and ask him if he's heard about this," Bruce ordered. Dick groaned sarcastically and moped over to the phone.

"Whatever you say Bruce." Dick picked up the phone and dialled quickly, he put the phone on his shoulder as the ring tone began.

"Do you think he's coming for you?" Dick inquired.

"I don't know,he could be. He was my first case, before anyone else came on board," Bruce grabbed his phone and started tapping away.

Dick picked the phone up and held it to his ear. "Yeah, we heard Jim, anything else you can tell us?" Dick heard some shuffling on the other end of the line.

"Officially, no. Unofficially there are some details I can inform you of," Jim's gruff voice sounded stressed. Bruce looked up and gestured to Dick. Dick put the call on loudspeaker.

"The two of you meet me, tomorrow. At the diner downtown, near the precinct. I'll be in the back booth with a grey hat on," Jim told Dick. Bruce nodded at Dick.

"Yeah, that's fine Jim. How bad is it?" Dick inquired. Jim took a deep breath at the other end.

"It's not pretty," he said, "We've got three guards dead and another five in critical states at Gotham General. Apparently they were killed by bombs concealed in a laundry trolley. We're launching a full investigation of it as we speak."

"Is it an inside job?"

"Well it's hard to believe that he got out without any help, but probably harder to believe that somebody would help that nutcase." Jim laughed for a moment.

"Maybe I should consider retiring on a pension, the city is so much different to when I started out as a rookie."

Dick thanked Jim and hung up. He walked over to the coffee table and turned the tv off. He grabbed the pizzas and put them in the fridge. They were in for a long night.

Bruce had searched and found three articles relating to the criminal's escape from Arkham Asylum. Most of them were sensationalised and completely inaccurate compared to what Jim had told Dick, but Bruce clicked on the Gotham Times website. His eyes opened wide when he saw the top headline.

"Clown Prince of Crime escape is no laughing matter."


	2. Chapter 2

Police tape ran all around the entrance to Arkham Asylum. News vans were scattered across the entrance, reporters all trying to get the first story out. A strong gust of wind whipped at Jim Gordon's face. His grey tie flicked into his eye and he recoiled in pain. He swore loudly, wrenching the tie out of his face. He gritted his teeth and looked at an officer from the forensics team.

"How long until there's any evidence?" he asked bluntly.

"To be honest Detective, I have no idea. We'll have to do a full sweep of the facility and then the perimeter. It could be days, more likely weeks, until there's any hard evidence to go off. This guy probably only left evidence because he wanted to. He enjoys manipulating people, especially the Police Department. He's sending a message of some sort," replied the officer. He could tell from Gordon's eyes that it wasn't the answer he was looking for. He shrugged at Gordon and walked under the police tape and back into the Asylum.

Gordon knew there was nothing more he could do. He moped over to his car and fumbled with his keys. They slipped from his hands and fell onto the ground. Gordon hadn't realised how cold it was. His hands were numb. Drops of rain began to fall from the sky. His boots crunched on the dirt as he bent down to pick his keys up. On the underside of the car Gordon spotted something peculiar. He frowned.

All heads turned as pieces of Jim Gordon's car flew into the air. Slowly, but surely in the night wind, the air was filled with fluttering joker cards, floating to the ground. The scene was somewhat surreal, the white cards contrasted the flaming molten wreckage of Gordon's car flying to the ground. The rain began to really pour down. Steam rose from the destroyed car as the flames slowly dipped back to the ground, fizzling away as the clouds opened up.

* * *

Dick rolled out of bed with a groan. Although he didn't live at Wayne Detective Agency like Bruce, there was a guest room just for him. Recently, more often than not, Dick found that he was sleeping overnight at the Agency. He rotated his neck until he felt it crack. Satisfied, Dick stood up and looked out the window. Being a Saturday, the traffic was light. He remembered the rain had dissipated sometime after midnight. He put on some pants and walked into the kitchen shirtless. He opened the fridge, but had to shield his eyes from the overpowering harsh light. He eyed the pizza they hadn't eaten the night before.

The ding of the microwave pulled Dick from his thoughts. He bent down and pulled the plate out. Except it was too hot. He recoiled with pain and the plate dropped from his hands. The ensuing sound seemed so loud to Dick he was surprised that Bruce didn't wake up. Dick shook his head in frustration. He grabbed a dustpan and began to clean up the mess. _That was a nice plate dammit, and even nicer pizza,_ he thought. He heard footsteps ascending the stairs from the Agency. Dick pondered who it was for a moment. A key went into the lock. None other than Alfred Pennyworth trudged in. In his hand he held the morning paper.

"Morning Master Dick," Alfred smiled. Dick laughed. He walked over to Alfred and embraced him warmly.

"I've told you before, Alfred, just call me Dick," Dick said.

"I will take that into consideration, Master Dick," Alfred replied smartly. Dick rolled his eyes and resumed cleaning the broken plate on the floor.

"Bit of trouble in paradise?" enquired Alfred.

"He's out, Alfred, again."

"Never mind that now. Go and wake Master Bruce and I shall cook you both a tasty warm breakfast. Can't be solving crimes on an empty stomach now, can we?" Alfred declared cheerfully. Dick shook his head.

"Alfred it's a Saturday, and your day off surely-"

"Master Dick, a true butler's job is never done until the day he passes from this world." Alfred pointed Dick away from the kitchen.

Dick knew who was going to win this argument; he couldn't recall any occasion where he managed to beat Alfred Pennyworth in an argument.

* * *

Bruce wasn't sure what was a better experience to wake up to. The soft, supple skin of a beautiful European model in his bed, or the sound of crackling bacon. Seeing as he never argued with bacon, nor he had any relationship problems with the meat and he preferred the smell.

Bruce sat up in his bed and turned on the tv in his room. He distractedly flicked through the sport channels briefly before switching it to the 24/7 news channel.

"I see that you're awake." Dick was standing in the doorway, his arms crossed against his chest.

"Honestly, how can you sleep so well knowing that he's out? I could barely sleep all night," Dick remarked.

"Sleeping is like any other skill Dick, you get good with practice." Truth be told, Bruce had slept woefully that night. He had been restless for hours. His mind raced with thoughts that he couldn't block out. Everything he had been put through as a detective had seemed to all combine into one single traumatic dream. Maybe it was a premonition. Either way, Bruce did not feel good at all. No need for Dick to know that though, one of them needed to work with a clear mind.

"Bruce, should I call in Tim? I know it's the weekend but we need all the help we can get. Even if he just looks online for any information relating to the escape, or calls up the police and news stations for information." Dick uncrossed his arms and looked at Bruce for an answer.

Tim Drake was a young schoolboy who was doing work experience at the Wayne Detective Agency. His usefulness far exceeded any expectations for a normal schoolboy. Armed with a crafty mind and skills of deduction rivalling those of Bruce and Dick, he himself had solved many cases at the Agency. His role was somewhat unofficial but Bruce had taken him under his wing like he had Dick, passing on his knowledge. After all, Bruce did see retirement somewhere in his future, and he planned to have a solid foundation following him.

"No Dick, we don't need him. It would be too dangerous to bring him into this anyway. We don't want him to be targeted as a result." Bruce scratched his beard slowly. Usually he kept himself clean-shaven but he now realised he had neglected to shave for a few days. The result was not pretty.

"If you two would please, come and eat some food," asked Alfred. Alfred's eyes suggested anything but a polite request. Bruce rolled his eyes and turned the television off. He followed Dick into the kitchen. Beholding them was the most delicious food Bruce had ever laid his eyes upon. He began salivating. Smiling at Alfred, he sat down and poured a glass of orange juice. Alfred handed the paper to Bruce.

"Front page may be of interest to you Master Bruce," Alfred informed Bruce with a subdued tone. Bruce unfurled the paper and looked at the front page. Spanning the entire front was a single image. Jim Gordon's flaming car.

Bruce breathed in deeply.

He couldn't believe it. Jim Gordon couldn't be dead. He was the down to earth, gritty man not afraid to get his hands a little dirty. Most of all, he was Bruce's friend. Dick peered over Bruce's shoulder, and he too opened his eyes wide with bewilderment. He mouthed "no" silently. Even though the breakfast was still hot, the entire room went cold to Bruce Wayne.

A thump echoed through the room as orange juice went everywhere. The table cloth stained orange, shards of glass embedded in Bruce's hand. He gritted his teeth and and pulled a shard out. Scarlet blood poured out of his hand. He grabbed a tissue and placed it on the gash. In a matter of seconds the tissue was completely soaked. The room was silent except for the steady breathing of the three occupants in it.

Alfred muttered, "I better go get the first aid kit," and left the room. Bruce set about pulling the shards of glass out of his hand. He bit his lip in pain. Even more blood poured out, from multiple gashes this time. Red waterfalls of liquid cascaded down his hand and onto the table cloth. The orange juice had mixed with Bruce's blood. Dick attempted to break the tension in the room.

"I guess that's that the difference between normal oranges and blood oranges," he said awkwardly.

Bruce furrowed his brow.

"I should not have done that," he apologised.

"Whatever has happened Bruce, you can't blame yourself. Do you hear me?" said a concerned Dick.

"Master Dick is right Master Wayne, if you are ever going to catch this man, you need to work with a clear mind. If Jim Gordon is dead, he would want you to do the same thing. Now show me your hand." Alfred had returned with the first aid kit. He scanned Bruce's hand and sighed.

"You're going to have to go the hospital, I'm afraid. There's glass too deep for me to get and we can't leave it in there, that's for sure." Both Alfred and Dick looked at Bruce. He had spaced out and was looking out the window. Slowly his eyes focused on the room around him once more. His chair screeched along the floor as he stood up. He fumbled in his pockets for his keys and threw them to Dick. Bruce trudged out of the door.

Alfred cleared his throat. "Master Dick, I have not seen him this affected by someone's death since….since the death of Thomas and Martha. I am concerned for his health. You need to talk to him, he's less likely to shut you out. Now you go drive him to Gotham General and I'll clean up this godawful mess. Be safe."

Dick nodded in understanding. He quickly put on a pair of shoes and slipped a shirt over his chest before walking out of the door. He descended the stairs to the garage two steps at a time, taking care not to trip on the way down. Bruce was already leaning against the bonnet of the car, cradling his right hand against his chest. Dick did not like what he saw in Bruce's eyes; uncertainty, guilt and shame. All quite unlike the Bruce Wayne he knew. Dick opened the car door and got in the driver's seat. Bruce slid in next to him. Dick gave Bruce one more concerned look before he started the engine. The only sound in the car was their seatbelts clicking.

* * *

The automatic doors closed behind Bruce and Dick as they walked back to the car. They had waited for over an hour before a doctor had attended to Bruce. It hadn't taken him long before he had removed all of the glass and bandaged Bruce's hand. Bruce was happy that the doctor hadn't asked how the injury came about. Bruce was still furious that he had let his emotions get the better of him. He was better than that, he knew it. Jim gone though, how could he move on from that? _Stop that maniac from killing anyone else,_ a voice somewhere in his mind said. Bruce sighed and steeled his resolve. He would not let anything get to him. He had to keep his mind on the job.

"You getting in?" Dick asked Bruce. Bruce looked up and got in the car silently.

"Let's go to Arkham," Bruce suggested.

"Why?"

"Dick, if there is any evidence visible, it is there for my eyes. He wants to play games. He is trying to drag me into this again, so he can hurt me, make me pay for putting him away."

Bruce pulled his notebook out of the glove compartment. In it was contained all of his past case notes and detailed information on all of the criminals he had caught and put away. It was originally an elegant bound brown leather, but over time it had disintegrated, the cover was partially torn and the leather had become cracked. To Bruce though, it was one of his most prized possessions. It helped remind him where he came from. He looked up from the notebook peered out the window.

"To him, this is all just a killing joke."


	3. Chapter 3

The first thing Jim Gordon did was swear. "Well shit," he remarked. All he saw was darkness. He tried to move but he couldn't. He remembered seeing the bomb on his car… and then nothing. What had happened? The air around him was becoming increasingly more shallow. He struggled around furiously, trying to break free. He yelled for help but all he could hear was the echo of his own voice. The darkness didn't scare Jim. What scared Jim was the quiet. It was silent.

"Am I dead?"

* * *

Dick pulled into the Asylum. The plethora of news vans from the night before had ceased and few vans remained. Bruce saw the black charred wreck of Jim Gordon's car and took a deep breath in. All around the car was police tape. Two officers were kneeling next to it. One was clearly a forensic scientist. They got up and walked under the tape. The other officer, wearing regular police clothes, watched the car pull in. He walked up to the car and knocked lightly on the window. Dick rolled down the window with a button and smiled at the police officer. "Hello there," he said.

"Do you have identification? We can't let just anyone in here." The officer's expression suggested a degree of suspicion.

"Yeah sure. My name is Dick Grayson, my passenger here is Bruce Wayne. We're both from the Wayne Detective Agency, here to check out the breakout and the subsequent death of Jim Gordon." Bruce passed Dick his driver's license and private investigation license. Dick passed both his and Bruce's identification to the officer. The officer looked them over briefly and peered into the car. He nodded and waved them on.

"Move along, but may I ask, who exactly asked you to investigate this?" The officer queried.

"The deceased victim, before he died." Bruce's response was blunt and received a glare from Dick. The officer shuffled his feet uncomfortably and walked back towards his police van where the forensic scientist had been conducting some tests.

Dick rolled the window back down and drove into the Asylum, pulling up in the visitor car park. The two detectives got out of the car. Both wore long trenchcoats, Bruce's black and Dick's grey. As always Bruce wore a tie and had donned a grey beanie. He also wore a pair of elegant leather gloves. Dick opted not to wear a beanie or tie, instead deciding to wear his scarf. It was the same scarf that Alfred had given him the night Dick's parents died. Dick's left breast pocket contained a fresh notepad and Bruce held his trusty notebook in his left hand.

The ground was still covered with thin layers of puddles. The rain had regressed around midnight but the weather remained miserable, with storm clouds looming overhead suggesting more precipitation to come. Jim Gordon's destroyed car came into view as they walked over the hill. All police reports had confirmed that no body had been found. Normally this would encourage Bruce but deep down he knew there was no way Jim could have survived the explosion. Especially considering the decimated state of Gordon's vehicle.

The 1969 Chevy Impala was barely recognisable. Three of the doors had been blown off and now lay piled up next to the car. The remaining door was hanging loosely off the hinge. The car was one of Jim's few prized possessions. It was rusty the day he bought it and it remained so until the day it was destroyed. The car was indicative of everything he had worked for. Tough and gritty, yet strikingly elegant. Bruce eyed something suspicious in the car. On the blackened dashboard of the car lay a single playing card.

A Joker.

"Hey Boss, you know that guy we have working for us at the Asylum? Well according to him, Wayne has found the little message from you. He also says tha-"

The thug's lifeless body slumped at the Joker's feet.

"Shaddup already, will you?" the Joker blew the smoke from his gun.

"Anyone else want to try and tell me what's happening? Good. Of course I knew he'd find the message; that's why I left it there in the first place you idiot." The Joker started kicking the thug's body. He laughed and pointed at another thug.

"You there, get rid of this body." The thug moved hastily towards the body and furiously dragged it away.

No one wanted to upset the Joker. He pulled a photo out of his pocket. It was of Bruce Wayne. The Joker smiled at the photo. His relationship with Bruce Wayne was complicated. The man was responsible for catching him and putting him in Arkham Asylum. No other man had ever come close to matching the Joker's weird intellect. That was why the Joker didn't want Bruce Wayne dead. He believed the detective to be similar in so many ways. Orphaned by tragedy, split by adversity and shaped by grief, only Bruce Wayne had grown up with the money of his family until he donated it. The Joker had had nothing.

"Oh, Brucey Wucey, nothing will be able to stop us. Eventually we will be able to play our little game once more." The Joker rubbed the photo. He looked up and surveyed the scene around him with pride. He was holed up in a construction plant, the construction plant, the one where he was caught by the great Bruce Wayne, PI. The Joker sighed and thought back to who he was before the Clown Prince of Crime.

Growing up in a fractured household, his father was abusive and his mother submissive. The two did not mix well. One night he couldn't bear to hear his mother sob any longer. When he walked into the kitchen he saw his mother lying motionless on the floor. "Mom?" he asked, afraid. He looked and saw his father standing there, unmoving. The boy the grabbed the kitchen knife and thrust it into his father. Not just once. As his father fell to the floor he kept stabbing until he was no longer recognisable. His father's face became a macabre mural of blood and skin. By the time the boy was finished he was covered in blood. He looked up and stared at himself in the mirror. The face staring back at him had aged considerably. It was unrecognisable. Blood was smeared all over his face. Somehow it had formed a sinister smile. Soon he was laughing. He rolled around cackling in the blood of his dead father and dead mother.

Abuse and neglect had led the young boy into becoming a psychopathic maniac. It always suspected by the police that the man's son had murdered him but the Joker underwent such a large transformation as a result of the trauma that the police never connected the crime to him.

The Joker snapped out of his daydream and stood up. "Come on boys, it's time to call a friend of ours!" A sadistic smile crept onto the face of the elated Joker.

* * *

Bruce examined the card in his hand. He ran his fingers over it. It was a specially made card. A razor blade one, designed to cut fingers and throats. Bruce flipped the card over in his hand and focused on the writing before him. It said: "Oh Brucey, how long it's been since our last chorus together! You and me together, after so long. Come meet me at the construction plant, where it all began so long ago. I know you're curious….. Love, the Joker."

Dick peered over Bruce's shoulder and read the note. "Don't go, Bruce. He'll kill you," Dick warned.

"You don't know the Joker like I do Dick. For some goddamn reason he doesn't want to kill me. No, he wants to toy with me. Manipulation is his game. He must have some angle, something we've overlooked. We have to be careful. We aren't superheroes after all, we're only human. Detectives, and damn good ones at that."

Bruce shifted his tie and copied the note's text into his notebook. This was evidence, he couldn't take it with him. But why hadn't anyone asked him about it? Unless it was placed there before we came. Wait a minute, the police officer…. no he couldn't be working for the Joker could he? Bruce's head shot up as a ringtone went off. He exhaled. Dick looked apologetically at Bruce and pulled his phone out. He answered it and spoke quietly. He listened for a few moments and replied. He nodded and hung up. He looked at Bruce.

"Two-Face has robbed another bank Bruce. Unless you want to go the construction plant right now I need to go to the bank. The officer there, he is a personal acquaintance of mine, but I-"

"Go Dick." Bruce waved Dick away.

"How will you get back to the Agency?"

"I'll walk back. I need the fresh air. If it gets too much, I can just call Alfred. It'll be fine Dick," Bruce replied.

"Don't do anything stupid. We need to think our next move through with the Joker. I'll be in touch."

Dick walked back towards the car. He turned around and looked at Bruce briefly before getting into the driver's seat. He beeped the horn at Bruce lightly on the way out. Dick turned the radio on. He rested his left arm on the car window and sighed.

Bruce started walking out of the Asylum. While it was a far walk from the CBD of Gotham, Bruce wasn't going to the CBD. He was going to the Downtown Diner. Surely there could be a clue there of what Jim wanted to tell him. There's no way he didn't have a contingency. He always knew his life was in danger, Bruce thought. Possibly Bruce needed for Jim to have a contingency, so he didn't die in vain, so something good could be made from the tragedy. "Is it all just folly?" Bruce asked himself under his breath.

A foot behind him crunched under the gravel. Bruce swiveled just in time to see a baseball bat headed for his face. He ducked at the last second, avoiding the bat by bare millimetres. He heard the swoosh of the bat passing his head. Bruce stood back up straight and looked at his attacker. It was the police officer from before, but he had shed his police clothes. The thug now wore a yellow singlet and khaki pants. The man's upper body was chiseled and Bruce could see every sinew and muscle move as the thug swung the bat at Bruce again. Bruce was able to dodge it again, but he wouldn't be able to last much longer. Even though he kept his body in peak condition, he was used to taking down small time thieves and gangsters. Henchman of the Joker weren't so easy.

Bruce dropped to the ground, cradling his face in his hands in complete agony. The man had landed a blow. He landed another one. And another. He loaded up for another swing and let loose but the bat was stopped mid swing. By Bruce's hand. Bruce threw a punch at the thug with his other hand. He instantly knew his mistake. It was his bandaged hand. Bruce withdrew the punch and instead he decided to end the fight swiftly. He swung his foot and landed it where no man ever wished for a foot to land. It had the desired effect and the thug swore loudly as he grasped his balls. The bat fell limp in Bruce's hands. Bruce fumbled for the handcuffs in his trenchcoat and quickly put them on the thug. He dragged the man over to the police car.

There was a crunch as Bruce smashed the man's face into the hood of the car. "Why did the Joker send you?" Bruce yelled furiously at the thug. The thug turned his head and spat two teeth out at Bruce.

"To make sure you got his little invitation message," rasped the thug. Bruce nodded as if in agreement.

"Thank you for your help." Bruce slammed the thug into the car again and the thug slumped to the ground. Bruce muttered an insincere "whoops" and dialled the police precinct. He told them he had picked up one of the Joker's henchman. The fact the thug had been beaten bloody would be overlooked; after all he was one of the Joker's henchman, he could have vital information.

Bruce rotated his neck until it cracked. He rubbed his sore ribs and starting walking back towards the Agency.


	4. Regrets and Acknowledgements

Unfortunately I have decided to stop writing Bruce Wayne: The Inquisitor. Those of you that had actually read any of it have probably noticed it hasn't been updated for a long time. Due to a lack of direction in the story and other commitments, I decided to finish all writing for the story. I did have the drafts of a few other chapters but I had no real idea where I was going to take it beyond that, and I felt the lack of ideas I had was a good indicator that the story probably wasn't going to go on for much longer.

I would just like to thank Vest and Bow Tie for his beta reading, and any readers who actually did read the first three chapters. If you have any other inquiries or questions about the story, please feel free to PM me.

Thanks,

beware98


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